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‘Nope, no, go back. That wasn’t the line… You know what, fine, that’s fine, just move on. Thank you for trying, that was terrible, next scene.’
That had been the sentiment for the last three hours. David – or “The Narrator” as he insisted on being known as in the rehearsal space, a method actor through and through – was truly beyond fed-up at this point and the same could be said for the rest of the troupe. The Bogs Hollow Players, named for their town of origin but soon to leave it behind and travel The Lands That Are, were in the kindest terms, a dysfunctional group. Even their tour planning was terrible. Starting in Bogs Hollow and then off to The Isle of Ruins, then a completely safe and reasonable trip across The Uncrossable Sea, didn’t sound worrying at all.
They had known each other for years but this was the first time this type of pressure had been upon them. Gone were the days of being a local mockery to adults, stuck entertaining children in the village square as a free source of, essentially, childcare. Now it was time to tell their tale or tear each other apart in the process. Or die trying, that was very possible too. Their story was one they all knew. A story that underpinned the legends that spread by word of mouth through their culture, one that permeated oral story-telling tradition, and one that had been warped and rewritten by time itself.
The question of what truly happened and how their kingdom had both been saved from ruin and reacquainted with fear hung in the air. Stories floated around, but with no real conclusion, the stage was set for their version of the narrative. A story of revenge, of love, of restoring equity and of tipping the scales the way of justice. The faith they had in the story had given them the inspiration to take their performance across the lands, to pack up and leave. It had been beautiful… Now the ten of them stood in the boiling heat of a Bogs Hollow summer, sweating through their costumes and stumbling their way through lines. It could have been more glamourous but nothing good came easy.
‘Now, this is the moment we need to really shock the audience, frighten them. If someone cries, brilliant!’ David reminded them, a sentiment he had repeated several times over the last few hours. It seemed his major goals were shock, fear and a general disturbance to the people’s psyche. ‘Now, obviously don’t cut her leg with the bone saw, we cannot afford to pay an on-set doctor.’
‘You have to take the fun out of it...’ Clarice muttered to herself, brushing a piece of hair from her rather dramatic wig out of her face. Their first rehearsal in costume only made things more complicated considering they hadn’t finished the show yet.
‘If you cut me with that thing, I will make sure my bloodline reigns hell down upon yours.’ Sigrid snarked from the table she was laying on, Anneke and Fiora on either side in their “stepsister” garb.
‘Almost makes me want to, just to test that.’ Clarice hummed, she smiled quickly to assure Sigrid that she wouldn’t actually cut her leg off with a bone saw. But who was to say, actors weren’t known for their honesty, and Clarice tended to go back on her word to entertain herself.
‘No, no testing it, just use the prop.’ They were once again reminded by their director, writer, narrator, star, and possibly also thirteen other roles (choreographer, set builder, prop designer, composer, etc). ‘We are losing valuable time; we open in a week and I did not spend three months writing this for nothing!’
‘I have a question-’
‘Of course you do. Yes, Gregor?’ David turned to one of the taller, lankier actors with a frankly horrific bowl cut. He had a few simple directions: stand in the corner, make no noise and play that stupid fucking mouse. He seemed to not be able to do any of them.
‘Why are we still doing this plotline, the queen didn’t die?’ Gregor was sat to the side, cross-legged with the Crumb puppet on his lap. He had been doing this for the better part of the last week of rehearsals. He just had to question authority.
‘So far as we know.’ Cyprian whispered conspiratorially, his comically large crown fell in his eyes, causing him to softly curse and take it off for a moment. He was very much constantly in character. He nudged Alaric, who also seemed to always be in character as lightly bothered and overall done with Cyprian’s bullshit. He got a half-hearted, forced laugh in return. David huffed again, trying to interrupt the conversation before it turned to conspiracy theories.
‘This is my take on the story, now will you please—’
He was unsuccessful.
‘If there was an attempted Troll takeover, we would have heard about it.’ Anneke chimed in, perpetual smile and positive tone becoming grating very quickly.
‘And this would be far more disrespectful than it already is.’ Fiora added, ignoring whatever David had to say about “artistic license”.
‘Can you stop talking and attack me with a bone saw again?’ Sigrid protested from the table she was still being held against. Bertram, watching from behind the large frog puppet he was attached too, looked frankly very nervous about her being placed in harm’s way.
‘Gladly.’ Clarice hummed as she raised the definitely-not-prop saw again. She was terrifyingly excited to threaten her with it.
‘It doesn’t come across as humorous when you say it.’ Alaric sighed as he kicked his heel against the block he sat on, watching the scene play out with limited attention.
‘You all bicker like children, honestly.’ Eydis Longfellow added from her place over by the Whippoorwills, who had come to the rehearsal simply to find out what it was that they were even supposed to play. Matthias watched with tentative interest at the arguing, Elias and Eliot were both strumming their guitars in complete indifference and Toothless John looked a mix of murderous and apathetic.
‘Thank you, mother.’ Clarice sneered at her before trying to refocus herself.
That did not happen. In fact, the next four hours consisted of them just trying to get through the one scene they had started. Sigrid protested the fact that she wasn’t allowed to stand up and not get cut with a bone saw. Cyprian and Alaric argued back and forth like an old married couple – something all the others would expect them to be if it weren’t a crime. Bertram and Gregor sulked behind their puppets. Clarice threatened all of them regularly. Anneke and Fiora gossiped quietly to themselves. Eydis just watched them all, an observer through and through, while David mourned the death of his vision.
And Ragweed played his woodblock.